


Untitled

by LazarusLateralus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-26 22:23:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazarusLateralus/pseuds/LazarusLateralus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Fall was a sacrifice on Sherlock's part.  Just not in the way you might think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled

The Fall was a sacrifice on Sherlock's part.

Just not in the way you might think.

He didn't quite fit with the world, see. He felt a bit out of place and more than a bit alone.

And then there was a man in a suit of strangers' skin, hair of cobwebs and heart of stone. Jim was not afraid of death. And he looked out of place and absolutely alone.

 

Sherlock stood above everything. He had the world; they had the world, and he was going to have to give it up. He and his shadow were parting ways.

He had gone to Molly and said, "I need to die." He let her see his grief. He took the offered sympathy. He looked at Molly and thought, _I need to live_.

He looked at Jim, stared at him, and his eyes were dark and deep.

He looked at Jim and thought, _let me follow you_.

And he threw out his arms so he could feel his sacrifice, really feel it in his shoulders, and he didn't follow Jim. He went back down on his own.

 

So it was like this:

Mrs. Hudson would cry more often, and feel her movements slow. Mycroft would carry on with weight around his neck. Lestrade would watch his hair turn white. John would pray to gods he didn't believe in.

And Sherlock would be solitary and alone, wandering in clothes he didn't quite fit into, and it would be okay.

He would run and run with purpose. He would take out the remainders of a centerless empire and have blood in his mouth and sore legs and an unshaven face at the end of the week.

And it would be good.

But he would go back, eventually, to the country he left in the cold, and John would look at him and think, _you won_.

Sherlock had been backed into a corner and forced to forfeit. He could not see this as a victory.

He did miss John. He missed Baker Street, and he missed London.

He missed the fear, though. Hired men were nothing.

He missed the dance with death. Sherlock knew it could only happen once.

Now he would die of old age, probably.

Old age or disease.


End file.
